


Discord Server Fics

by scornandivory



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, Manipulative Will Graham, cannibalistic domestic bliss, no betas we die like men, y'all it's a bunch of short stories written for server prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:04:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27010117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scornandivory/pseuds/scornandivory
Summary: A collection of drabbles written for the A Consequence of Consumption Discord. Summaries and content warnings in the chapter intros.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. 81—Paris

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: "will grows up in Paris w/ bio mom when dad dies," bonus points for Hannibal and Will meeting at a fancy party
> 
> warnings: none

Will is at the party because the sole son and heir of Helene St. Martin does not simply not attend his mother’s soirees, even when the woman in question will say all of ten words to him tonight and even when it’s nothing more than an extravagant birthday party being used as the vehicle to show off her newly acquired sculptures. He rarely speaks to anyone at these gatherings, and even more rarely is it by choice. Will has, he knows, a reputation amongst the high society of Gay Paree, hounded by whispered suppositions that seem to boil down into two separate categories. The first is, naturally, gossip about his strange, removed, nature. What a pity, that Will St. Martin, when his mother is such a beauty and such a joy to talk to. The blame for why Will keeps himself separate from the crowd inevitably, pityingly, falls onto the poor socialization he surely received from his redneck American father until he came to live with Helene, which leads into the second type of gossip. It is easy to see that Will has chosen to keep himself as distant from his mother as he has from all others rather than falling into her lap and weeping in gratitude when she condescended to bring him into her home. Instead, he remained dry-eyed and unfilial. Rumors circulated about what sort of man could raise such a son, landing on “hard-hearted”. This is, technically, true; it was indeed atherosclerosis that did Billy Graham in. And so Will occupies a rare and unenviable position of being a disliked oddity in a sea of people who value half his base components too much to say so to his face.

Despite his outcast nature, he is not surprised when the man approaches him. Foreigners, newly acquired significant others, and other transplants into his mother’s circle always approach him at least once. It’s polite, after all, or they’ve heard of him through phrases that pique their interest, like “such a quiet boy” and caught the speaker’s tacit implication that Will is too quiet for their comfort. The man will smile. He will offer his compliments. He will attempt to make conversation with Will as Will neither makes eye contact nor engages beyond one-word responses. The man will inevitably, awkwardly, make the decision to go check in with his fellow party-goers. Will will continue to stand with his back to the wall until sufficient time has passed for him to leave. 

The man smiles at him. “Hello,” he says, “the party is lovely. You must be Will.”

“I must,” Will agrees.

The man extends a hand. “Hannibal Lecter. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Will looks at the hand for a beat too long before taking it. It’s a nice hand, as far as these things go, callused but well-manicured with long, elegant fingers. Vain, pristine, and used to getting his hands dirty. As he accepts the small, polite handshake, his eyes immigrate to the general area of the man’s head, avoiding the eyes as his gaze wanders. The man has neatly coiffed dark hair, sparse eyebrows, and a face like origami. The lattermost was less in reference to his skin being thin or papery—though it did seem to press close to the architecture of his skull—and more to do with the fact that his face was elegant and seemed to be folded and creased just so, with the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the line under his eyes that seemed to trace his orbits. It was also immaculately constructed and obviously a facade. His eyes, when Will forced himself to look, were shining, dark, and utterly empty. There was a blissful lack of anything for his labyrinth of mirror neurons to latch onto.

It isn’t the first time that Will has met a psychopath at one of Helene’s events. Of course it wasn’t. His mother rubs elbows with bankers and landlords and all manner of unspeakable monster because she is the shining star of Paris high society. It did, however, make things slightly more difficult. The average person with their ventromedial prefrontal cortex hooked up correctly could stand to be in Will’s company for only so long. Lecter would be harder to shake. 

Will lets go of the hand. 

“It is good to be back in Paris,” Hannibal says, eyes keen on Will for all that he’s ignoring his recalcitrance. “I was sad to be apart from it when I moved to America. I’ve been told you and I have had opposite journeys.”

“You don’t sound French,” Will says, because he doesn’t.

Lecter’s lips twitch slightly, and Will gets the impression that anyone else would have laughed good-naturedly. An edge to his mask, perhaps. The man in front of him had created his mask to his own specifications, keeping his true nature hidden becoming a secondary concern. “You are correct. I was born in Lithuania and migrated to France with my uncle and his wife in my adolescence. I then moved to America to pursue my career.”

Will mentally ticked off the list of likely professions for a psychopath, searching for one that used their hands. The calluses could of course be the result of a hobby, but Will was willing to hedge his bets. “Surgeon?”

Lecter’s eyes did not widen, but he did lean back slightly, tilting his left shoulder up a centimeter, to indicate surprise. “Very good. May I ask how you knew?”

“You aren’t a police officer,” Will says with a snort, wishing he had anything in his hands to distract him. “So it was between surgeon and chef. Lucky guess.”

“Quite lucky,” Lecter agrees, and all at once his eyes become bottomless holes, like the floor was dropped out from underneath them. Will is immediately caught in the undertow as empathy connects, feeling the cogs turning as the man in front of him works through what lists made him a likely candidate for policeman, chef, or surgeon. It won’t take long. He seems the type to be interested in reading about himself and his...eccentricities. Will slots other things together while he waits. Lecter is dressed in a way that would be garish on anyone else. Truth be told, it’s garish on him, but he wears it well nonetheless. He likes attention. He’s calculated. He probably gets off on knowing how many people fail to see anything but what he shows them. He lost his parents at a young age, or they gave him up. He referred to his uncle’s wife as just that instead of his aunt, so he either didn’t like her or liked her too much. He was eyeing Will with a hunger so blatant and primal that it could only be a slip in his intricate facade. 

“I believe I have an obligation to visit with a few other other guests before I leave, but I would enjoy continuing this conversation,” Hannibal says in a voice so cool Will has a split second where he second-guesses the heat in his eyes. “May I call on you later in the week?”

Will smiles mirthlessly. “I don’t know, Doctor. I don’t find you particularly interesting.”

Lecter shifts, slight and controlled as something in his gaze gets impossibly sharper. “I hope to change your mind about that,” he says, and Will, for the first time in a long, long time, feels a thread of heat and anticipation begin to curl in his gut. 


	2. 145—Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "will gets hurt and uses it to try and manipulate hannibal," bonus points for will hurting himself
> 
> warnings: blood

He looked down at the red, angry line on his palm in almost scientific wonder as the pain began to spread along the muscle. There was something disarming about seeing underneath his own skin, being able to gawk at the viscera he tries to hide and protect from the outside world. He was barefoot, so he could feel it when the first drop of blood splattered on the arch of his left foot. The second landed a bit to the side, colliding with the cold floor of his cell.

 _I should do something about this,_ he thought. But Will should have done a lot of things, like tell Jack Crawford to fuck off and not gotten hung up on psychiatrists who only valued him as an oddity.

Will winced a split second after the thought crossed his mind, ever vigilant of the dangers of speaking of the devil. Sure enough, there was the buzz of the door and the distinct click of a Lithuanian madman coming to play with his food yet again. It shouldn’t have been such a readily identifiable sound, but such was Will’s life.

It wasn’t a surprise; Matthew had warned him that his doctor was in the process of signing in and attempting to extricate himself from Chilton’s never-ending drive to brag. His grip on the bedpost had tightened, found a ragged edge, and been torn open. Matthew, already sauntering away to escort his charge, had not noticed.

The sound of the footsteps grew louder as Will tried to remember his last tetanus shot. There was a pause as they reached the front of the cell, and Will swore he could hear the whisper of the precise turn Hannibal would do to face him. He continued to stare down at his hand, angled towards his shitty, shitty bed.

“Will?” Hannibal asked. “Are you alright?” Will imagined the mask of concern he would be wearing, the tilt of his eyebrows, the hesitance around his mouth. The brightness in his eyes. He didn’t respond, choosing to stare down at the red canyon bloomed across his hand. The gears started to turn. His fingers twitched.

“Will?” Hannibal called again. If he had to ask Will again, he might call for an orderly to help. That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.

“It was an accident,” Will said softly. “Shit, can you call an orderly?” He put his faith in the fact that Hannibal was selfish about Will’s pain.

Sure enough. “What has happened?” Hannibal asked, and Will rewards him for playing along by turning partially toward him, eyes wide and vulnerable as a fawn. There’s maybe the slightest widening of his eyes as his nostrils flare, caught on the scent of blood. The gleam in his eyes tightened. “William. What have you done?”

“There’s an edge on the bedpost, and I—” he frowned down at his hand. “I think I slipped? Seriously, I need you to grab someone who can run me a bandaid.”

Hannibal’s eyes remained fixed on Will’s blood for a second, then shifted upwards to his face. “I can escort you to the medical wing,” he offered. Will pulled in his back muscles to replicate a barely suppressed wince.

“I don’t think it’s that bad,” he muttered, looking down at the floor as another drop of blood hits it.

Hannibal paused. Will would call it a hesitation, but he’d learned better. “Are your doctors here not adequate?”

Will shrugged. “They’re… I just don’t think it’s that serious.” He moved towards the fourth wall of his cell, where the curtain would sit if he were on any other stage, and made to yell down the hall. Hannibal took a step closer and soon they were inches apart, separated only by metal bars and the inextricable past. Will aborted his efforts to yell as though shocked.

“Will,” Hannibal said softly, “if the doctors here are mistreating you in any way, you must tell me or Alana.”

Will smiled bitterly. He didn’t even have to force it. “How do you mistreat a monster like the Ripper, Doctor? They’re fine. They’re just… they’re Dr. Chilton’s staff before they’re anything of mine.”

Hannibal nodded seriously. “Would you allow me to look at it, then?”

Will tensed, pulling the wavering line of his mouth tight like a stitch. “I don’t think the powers that be would allow that,” he said wryly.

Hannibal smiled. “I think they can make an exception.”

Will stared out his cell, just to the left of Hannibal’s head, and let himself tremble. Luckily, when pretending to be overcoming your horror at allowing someone you hated to render you medical aid, it was incredibly beneficial to actually be overcoming that horror. Even as a move in their unceasing game, Will was reluctant to let Hannibal that near him again. Finally he said, voice soft and cracking like eggshells, “please.”

Hannibal’s smile turned lazy, indulgent, and finally he stepped back to call for an orderly.


End file.
